(this is not the title of the following)
she defined herself by the things she had lost, the parts of her strewn about the world, no longer hers. the great diasphora of her materialism. she wondered of the people who had taken her goods, misappropriated them as their own. she wondered if two girls, a missing earring each, would ever meet. she wondered if she would ever find herself at a thrift store, own herself again, and never know it. she wondered who would give her away in the first place. she'd lost mechanical pencils, some with semi-functioning erasers, and wondered if they had done more, accurately, in someone else's hands. she'd lost a book of stamps and worried that they may have gone to better uses, more exotic places. she thought about the tickets she lost to the concert and wondered if they:d ever gotten stamped. wondered if paying twice the price for one experience was worth it. if she would have had a better time, gaining admittance to the venue 30 minutes earlier. she may very well then may not have met.....
(you, rare, non-existent reader/future self should know that i didn't intend her to meet anyone, it was my way of realizing a cliche, my "in" for if i ever wanted to write about romance (i don't), but really. we can't always rely on character studies, can we?)
and then success, succession! something about how the speaker is always different from the author. always. don't let anyone tell you differently. always. but then really, are we ever expressive?
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